


put your ear to the sky and listen

by girl0nfire



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Community: trope_bingo, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl0nfire/pseuds/girl0nfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaving his father's shady company behind, Thor opens a coffee shop in Telegraph Hill, San Francisco, and soon finds that the place he calls his own is also the place where people come to find what they didn't know they were looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your ear to the sky and listen

**Author's Note:**

> "In Landscape", Buddy Wakefield:
> 
>   
> on cue, my friend,  
> you came  
> your name  
> well lit,  
> stenciled on the walls of Fremont County  
> years before we even met  
> in landscape,  
> in scope  
> and so,  
> wing tipped,  
> I wrote it  
> down to the ground you walk on  
> with the heels of my helium shoes,  
>  **“Put your ear to the sky**  
>  **and listen my darling,**  
>  **everything whispers I love you.”**  
> 

There’s old newspaper hanging in the windows, hiding the mess inside from the passerby, and as Thor fits his key in the lock for the first time, he’s already imagining the bell he’ll hang from the frame, its sound announcing each new customer, the sunlight shining along Powell Street filtering through the glass into the shop.

As he pushes his way inside, the first thing he does it pull down the tarps, tearing the paper from the front windows and letting the bright spring light inside, waving as men in suits and women in jogging shorts bustle by. Setting his toolbox on the dark wooden floor, he pulls a rag from his back pocket and sets to work wiping the last of the workmen’s dust from the counters and tables.

It’s a small shop, nothing special, really, except it’s just _his_. Enough of a space to call a business, with a room upstairs that will fit his bed and a few books. A place of his own, outside anyone’s shadow, somewhere where the only thing that matters is the work he can do with his own hands. The people he can help.

The Asgard Securities tower looms large down the street, casting a long-fingered silhouette along the sidewalks, but from here, standing behind the now-gleaming dark counter, all Thor can see is the sun.

+

Bucky folds his pillow over his face, blocking out the _totally_ unnecessary assault of light as Steve flicks the switch on, leaning against the doorframe, half-in and half-out of Bucky’s room with that stupid early-morning ‘I’ve-already-jogged-and-now-I’m-here-all-sweaty-to-make-you-feel-lazy-and-gross’ grin on his face.

“Come on, Buck.” The floor creaks as Steve crosses the small room and sits, his weight tugging the far side of Bucky’s mattress down enough that he has to roll over to accommodate it. “You gonna waste the whole day in bed?”

No even bothering to pull the pillow from his face, Bucky lets out something like _mnfpfhhh_ into the fabric, and even though it’s all consonants and growling, Steve doesn’t give up. He plucks the plastic lid off the small cup of coffee in his hand, wafting the warm, bitter scent in Bucky’s direction.

“Look, I come bearing gifts.”

Bucky reaches across his body, pulling the edge of the pillow away from his face with his right hand and peeking out at Steve with one eye. He frowns, dropping the pillow again, his hand reaching out.

“Give.”

His fingers close on air, and Steve clucks at him. “Up. Pants.”

Another huff, this one maybe even containing a vowel, and Bucky pushes himself up one-handed with a groan. Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, his back to Steve, he fumbles along the nightstand until his hand closes on the blue-and-white sling resting there, lifting it carefully over his head and buckling the strap at his neck, guiding his left arm carefully into the canvas with a barely-concealed wince.

Steve tries not to watch Bucky’s back stiffen, the pink-fresh scars tracing parenthesis along his left shoulder blade standing out angry against pale skin, because when he does all Steve can see is six pieces of flying, serrated steel, the wild look that crossed Bucky’s face when he saw the IED a second before Steve, how he turned his back and caught Steve around the middle and drug them both into the dirt, the explosion ringing around them like a screaming heartbeat, desert dust and grit in their mouths and Bucky’s blood pulsing crimson on his tan fatigues. Steve closes his eyes, because all he can feel when he sees those raw scars crisscrossing Bucky’s back is the two hundred and fourty-seven stitches it took to put his best friend back together, two hundred and fourty-seven bites of a needle that Steve would’ve gladly taken, over and over again, if he’d had the chance.

Shaking his head, Steve wills away the rush of images of red-wet sand and dizzying sun and replaces the lid on the coffee, pushing himself off the mattress carefully. He clears his throat, setting the cup gently on Bucky’s desk, plastering a smile back on his face.

“Careful with that coffee. It’ll hit you like a hammer. Good stuff.”

Bucky’s already up, gingerly pulling on a pair of sweats and padding across the room to gather up the coffee and the dog-eared copy of yesterday’s _Examiner_ beside it. As he folds it, Steve can see the red circles and X’s littering the help-wanted page. Tucking the paper beneath his arm first, Bucky takes a sip of the coffee and startles, pulling a surprised face.

“Shit, you weren’t kidding. This is rocket fuel. Where’d you find this?”

Steve hangs back, letting Bucky pass as he makes his way slowly toward the kitchen, the paper slipping from where it’s crumpling between his elbow and his side. With a few steps, Steve catches up, grabbing the paper before it can hit the floor and tucking it more securely under Bucky’s arm.

“New place down the street. Owner’s a nice guy. You should try it out, take your paper. You could use a change of scenery.”  


Bucky doesn’t quite meet Steve’s eyes as he turns into the kitchen. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Well, I’ve got a WWII Propaganda lecture this afternoon, then Dr. Dugan’s taking me down to Vallejo Street, used to be a burial ground for foreign navy. He wants my input on a grant proposal he’s writing.”

Steve pulls open the hall closet door, yanking on the ancient handle to free the door from its crooked frame, and retrieves his jacket. He hasn’t been in San Francisco long, but he’s learned not to trust the sun in the spring, not when the wind comes off the water and barrels along the avenues like the slipstream from a jet. He slings his bag over his shoulder, reaching out to grab his keys from the hook on the wall. Bucky settles at their tiny kitchen table, shifting around to get comfortable, and flicks the lid off his coffee, pulling the sugar bowl toward himself and dumping three heaping spoonfuls into the cup; he doesn’t look up from meticulously spreading out his paper when Steve opens the front door, calling over his shoulder.

“I should be back before seven. You’ll be here?”

The chain hanging from the door clinks against the metal of the deadbolt as Steve waits for his answer.

“Not like I’m going anywhere fast, Steve. Go. Dust off an old soldier or two for me.”

+

Thor already regrets that damn bell above the door.

It’s not like he should be unhappy that it _hasn’t stopped ringing_. That’s a good thing, he thinks. It means he’s doing something right, that he’s doing well. He looks out over the counter at the half-full shop, people reading books and couples leaning in close over cappuccinos and is that a _bird_?

There’s a man seated near the front window, papers and notebooks spread across the bar, typing away furiously at his laptop. Thor’s seen him a few times before, recalls vaguely that he likes his Americanos with a splash of cold water so they’re not too hot, but Thor’s sure he’d remember the bird.

As he ducks out from behind the counter, Thor can see that the papers spread around are diagrams, charts, filled with sketches and detailed drawings of wings. There’s a map of the city spread out on the chair next to the man, big red circles inked at different intersections all over Telegraph Hill, notes and arrows cluttered in the margins. There’s also crumbs everywhere, Thor notes, as the man reaches over and breaks off another bit of his scone and holds it to his shoulder, the small green bird plucking the morsel from his fingers quietly.

The man lifts his head, cocking an eyebrow in Thor’s direction. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry –“ Thor scratches his head. Bad tippers, spilled coffee he can handle. This is…

“But your pet? The bird? It’s beautiful but I’m sorry, the health department –“ Thor clears his throat again, letting an easy smile cross his face, hoping this customer doesn’t take offense.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow your winged friend inside my shop.”

Without a word, the man lifts his hand again, and the small bird hops onto his extended finger. He makes his way to the door, opening it, and the creature takes flight, hovering in the warm air for a moment before gliding down the street and out of sight, a jewel-bright dot of green and crimson against the late morning sky.

“Thank you,” Thor extends his hand. “Sorry about that. I’m glad to have you… I’m Thor.”

“Sam.” He grips Thor’s hand and gives it a firm shake, before dropping it again and reaching up to brush crumbs off the shoulder of his blazer, one hand straightening his bowtie before he drops into his seat again. Resuming his typing, not missing a beat, he says, “They’re wild, you know.”

Thor stops, the entrance to the counter half-raised in his hand. “What?”

His hands stilling, Sam turns again, looking serenely at Thor. “The birds. They’re wild, here. Red-masked Parakeets. _Aratinga erythrogenys_. They’re all over the Hill, little flocks. I think they’ve descended from a few released pets, maybe. They’re quite talkative.”

Sam smiles, then, a thoughtful kind of half-smile, before returning to his papers and searching for a pen, scribbling something on a spare sheet and underlining it forcefully before turning to Thor again and raising a finger to point out of the shop’s window. “If Asgard Securities has its way, they’ll be gone soon. But you know that.”

Thor ducks behind the counter again, resettling the wood so it latches behind him. He picks up a clean rag, playing at polishing the mugs he’s just washed and avoiding Sam’s gaze.

“My father is not… a generous man. The city, that park, your birds, they’re collateral damage, as he would say.”

Sam throws an arm over the back of his chair, turning more fully to look at Thor.

“And that’s why you left? I remember reading about it in the paper, that you two had a falling out, that your brother’s in line to become Chairman.”

Stacking the last of the ceramic cups atop the espresso machine, Thor drops the cloth in the bucket below the counter. Finally meeting Sam’s eyes, he leans into the counter, gripping the edge with both hands.

“That is one of many reasons. And I am truly sorry for the damage he would cause.”

Sam shrugs, draining his cup. “Hey, not your fault, man. You were smart enough to get out.” Lifting his arm, Sam returns to his work, fingers flying over the keys.  


Thor watches the quiet bustle of the shop a while longer, leaning against the counter and imagining the sun outside slowly giving way to the shadow of his father’s tower.

+

“Two coffees, one black, one sweet, both extra-hot.”

Thor looks up from the pastry case, settling the pair of tongs he was using back on the counter.

“Ah, Detective Carter. Good morning.” He turns, flicking the switch on the coffee grinder as he goes, and Sharon slaps a few bills on the counter with a yawn.

“Yeah, whatever, I’m sure it’s a beautiful morning. Still night for me.” Sharon reaches into the inside pocket of her white leather jacket, revealing the dark leather of her shoulder holster as she retrieves a pair of mirrored sunglasses and slips them on. “And too damn bright.”

“I take it you and Detective Romanov had a rough night?” Thor stirs a few heaping teaspoonfulls of sugar into the Detective’s coffee, knowing she likes it damn near undrinkable, especially after long nights.

The bell above the door tinkles as Sharon’s partner, Natasha, slopes in, her scarlet hair pulled away from her face in a messy bun, dark circles below her eyes. She tosses a large ring of keys on the counter, fixing Sharon with an irritated glare.

“I had to park the squad car around the corner, the whole street’s blocked off for some Asgard Securities event. Fuck it, next time I’m just hitting the lights and sirens and taking the first spot I see.”

Thor sets their coffees on the counter, sliding Sharon’s money back toward her. “These ones are on the house, ladies. Sorry about your night.”

Sharon smiles at Thor, a rare, soft kind of smile that doesn’t show all of her teeth, and hands Natasha her coffee. “Here, Romanov, black like your heart,” she snorts, taking a sip of her own. “I was just telling our friend Thor here about our fabulous evening consorting with San Francisco’s finest scum.”

It’s Natasha’s turn to snort. “Yeah, well, make sure you tell him about that freak running around the Mission knocking over convenience stores in red-and-black fetish gear, calling herself Sin or something. According to the scanner, it took three undercovers to take her in; she kept screaming something about how her father would hear about this. Such a _delightful_ young lady.”

Sharon takes another gulp of coffee, rolling her eyes. “Hey, they could’ve had it worse. At least Fury doesn’t have them combing every nasty alley in the damn city for Doc Zola and his army of moron street pharmacists.”

The bell rings again, and Thor waves as Steve steps into the shop, his bag slung over his shoulder and his mouth full of sandwich. He waves back with his free hand, taking another huge bite as he approaches the counter, chewing loudly.

“Sorry,” he says around a mouthful of lettuce, swallowing thickly before crumpling the empty paper wrapping up in his hand, tossing it overhand into the trashcan near the counter. “Department meeting, didn’t think I’d get a chance to eat after.”

“Ah, Steven. It’s not a problem. The usual?” Steve nods, and Thor sets to work brewing Steve’s regular cup of hazelnut coffee as Sharon and Natasha continue their complaints about the night’s nutcases quietly.

Noticing them, Steve turns, abashed. He points between them and the counter. 

“I’m sorry, did I cut--?” 

He brings a hand up to the back of his neck, looking first to Natasha and then to Sharon apologetically. “I didn’t mean –“

Sharon cuts him off with a smirk, lifting her now-empty coffee cup in front of him. “Don’t worry champ, we’re taken care of.” She tosses her long blond hair off her face, Steve’s features reflected back double in the lenses of her glasses.

“Here you are, Steve,” Thor says, settling a full cup on the counter in front of Steve. As he pays, Thor watches his eyes dart from the bills he’s counting up to Sharon and back again, a sheepish smile on his face. Steve gathers up his coffee, hitching his bag higher up on his shoulder, and turns to leave, darting past the detectives with a mumbled “Good morning” and pushing out the door again.

The bell jingles as the door falls closed, and Sharon doesn’t even attempt to hide her grin as she tilts her glasses down her nose with one finger, watching Steve hustle down the sidewalk and out of sight. Natasha groans and sets her empty mug on the counter, suddenly becoming very interested in examining her nails as Sharon straightens her sunglasses again with a sigh.

“Romanov, I think I just found a reason to be a morning person.”

+

It takes about a week of Steve’s insisting, and it’s not even until Steve stops bringing him coffee altogether that Bucky finally ventures out of their apartment, down the two blocks and around the corner to Thor’s coffee shop.

Steve had said something about Thor finally getting his sidewalk permits, giving Bucky some business about how he needed more Vitamin D or he’d turn into one of those sparkly pasty vampires, and when Bucky approaches the shop, sure enough there are a few tables outside, half-full of people soaking up the early April sun and enjoying one of the first iced-coffee kind of days.

He hesitates for just a moment, today’s paper tucked under his sling, before he pushes the shop door open carefully. The bell above the frame jingles, its melody lost in the quiet music playing inside, and as Bucky picks his way around the crowded tables toward the counter, the smell of freshly ground coffee envelops him.  


Steve’s right, it’s nice to be out of the apartment. Bucky takes in the smooth, pale green walls, the shapes the afternoon sun is casting through the windows and along the ceiling. A tall, bearded man pops up from behind the counter where he’d been fiddling with the tubing below the espresso machine.

“Thor?” Bucky reaches his right hand out, trying on a smile. It’s harder than he remembers. Maybe that’s because he hasn’t done it in a while. “I’m Bucky, uh, Steve’s roommate.”

Thor’s face splits into a grin, his bright eyes nearly hidden between his beard and the fall of his hair across his forehead. “Bucky! Yes, Steven’s told me much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally find you here, in my shop. What can I make for you?”

Bucky untucks the paper from beneath his arm, laying it on the counter and reaching for his wallet. He still has a hard time negotiating around his left arm, and it’s frustrating. Finally closing his hand around his wallet, Bucky tugs it out of the breast pocket of his old field fatigue jacket, flicking it open to pull out a few bills.

“Uh, coffee? The regular kind?” Bucky eyes the gleaming silver espresso machine warily. “Nothing fancy?”

“Of course, “ Thor turns and pours a fresh cup, handing it to Bucky and counting out his change. “I am glad to meet you.”

Bucky dumps his handful of coins in the tip jar on the countertop, lifting his left arm with a wince to tuck the paper beneath it again, slipping his wallet back into his jacket. He leans, lifting the coffee cup with his right hand carefully, and tries on another smile. It gets easier, Bucky notes, the more he tries, and from the way Thor grins widely back, it must not even look like he’s trying that hard.

Turning slowly, Bucky navigates the close-set tables again, making his way toward the door and one of the few remaining tables out in the sun. It’s slow going, trying to balance the overfull cup of coffee in his good hand while trying his best to keep the newspaper pressed against his chest, the effort sending shocks of pain through his still-healing shoulder and all it takes is one misstep over an ill-placed laptop cord for it all to go straight to hell.

Bucky trips, and the newspaper slips from his grasp. He tries to catch it, the sudden twist reverberating in still-soft bone and barely healed stitches and he has to grit his teeth, the cup of coffee falling from his other hand with a crash as he overcompensates, his right hand jerking up to press at his shoulder, fingers digging in to push the sparks of pain away.

He stands there for a minute, his vision swimming dark and electric, his head still spinning lopsided from the sudden wash of agony, and it takes a few deep breaths before the ache in his shoulder subsides enough that Bucky can open his eyes and survey the damage he’s caused.

His paper is splayed over the wooden floor, soaked in coffee, ink running in rivulets down the disintegrating pages. Worse than that, though, is the smartly dressed man whose laptop cord he tripped over; he’s sitting stock-still, staring at Bucky, coffee stains mottling the open notebooks and unfolded maps in front of him.  


There’s even a fine spray of dark liquid painted across his laptop screen.

_Shit._

Bucky gapes, his face burning as he turns back to gather napkins from the counter, but Thor’s already there, towel in hand, and as he makes short work of the sodden mess at their feet, Bucky’s left to stammer some kind of apology to the man whose work he’s just ruined.

“God, I’m – I’m really sorry, please, I’m –“ His shoulder still throbs, and Bucky can feel his face heating. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be; if he’d known he was going to be such a mess, such a goddamn _wreck_ he never would’ve let Steve guilt him into getting out of the house. After all, no one wants to deal with someone like him. Broken toy soldiers aren’t any fun to play with.

The man’s face folds into a smile, a chuckle leaving his lips as Bucky flounders, and the man stands, putting a tentative hand on Bucky’s right shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, man. Nothing I don’t have copies of. Hazards of writing a book about birds; lots of potential for mess.” He keeps chuckling, a soft and genial sound, and he squeezes Bucky’s shoulder.

“Are you all right?” He gestures to Bucky’s arm, still in the sling and tucked beneath the front of his jacket, and when he meets Bucky’s eyes, there’s genuine concern there. 

“I’m fine, just… Yeah, I’m fine. Great. Look, I’m sorry.” Bucky shakes his head, shrugging his shoulder to dislodge the man’s hand. This isn’t what he wants, either; he’s had enough pity and ‘ _are-you-okay?_ ’s to last his whole damn life. But the man doesn’t sit back down, or turn away, his eyes searching Bucky’s face like he just _knows_ that’s at least the second biggest lie Bucky’s ever told in his life.

“Army?” He points at the patches at Bucky’s chest, BARNES spelled out in dark embroidery on green canvas above his right pocket.

Bucky nods, “Yeah. Special Ops. Two tours in Fallujah.”

There’s that smile again, serene and warm. “Well, you got a name, Barnes?”

Bucky startles for second, meeting the man’s eyes without meaning to, and he can’t quite make himself look away when he answers. “Bucky.” He wipes his hand off on his jeans, swiping off the last bit of coffee, and reaches it out to shake. “And you’re…”

“Sam. Sam Wilson.” He grips Bucky’s hand, and his fingers are warm against Bucky’s palm. “Thank you.”

Bucky cocks his head, one eyebrow raised as he looks at Sam curiously. “For what?”

Sam finally drops his hand, returning to his seat and beginning to wipe the coffee droplets from his keyboard. “For your service. Thank you.”  


It’s two words, really, it shouldn’t mean anything, but it’s two words that Bucky hasn’t ever heard, not in this context. Sure, the President himself had sent a letter to him while he was in the hospital, thanking him for his Bravery and Valor and other capital-letter words that meant _we’re really sorry you were dumb enough to throw yourself between Steve Rogers and an IED_ , printed on expensive, heavy cream paper and doubled up somewhere in his sock drawer, shoved behind the embossed leather box he’s never opened that Steve says is a Purple Heart.

But this? Sam, thanking him? That’s one he hasn’t heard before. And Bucky’s not sure where he goes from here, how to respond, but before he has to force something out of his mouth Thor’s at his shoulder, offering a fresh cup of coffee.

“Please don’t worry,” Thor says, gesturing toward Bucky with the mug, and before Bucky has time to decide it’s a bad idea, he’s taking the seat across the table from Sam and wrapping his hand around the cup, eyeing the sugar bowl at Sam’s elbow.

Even with the stains, Sam’s notes are fascinating, and Bucky just skims them for a few moments, waiting for his coffee to cool. Finally, Sam looks up again, catching Bucky’s eye over the back of his laptop, and Bucky’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“Tell me about your book?”

+

Natasha’s decided that if Sharon doesn’t get it together soon, she’s either going to force her over to hot-blond-professor-guy’s table at gunpoint, or run her over with their car.

She hasn’t quite decided which would be more efficient, yet.

“Sharon, you’re a creep. Go say something.” They’re both on their second cup of coffee, and their shift has been over for nearly an hour, and after a long night of rounding up skinheads, Natasha’s ready for a shower. “I swear, I’m going to leave you here to fend for yourself. You brought in that sleazeball Lukin all by your lonesome, why do you need me to talk to this guy?”

Across the shop, Steve turns the page of the journal he’s reading, leaning back in one of the deep leather chairs lining the wall. He’s got his boots up on the small table in front of him, the sunlight streaming through the window glinting off his hair, and goddamnit, did Sharon actually just _giggle_?

“I don’t _need_ you, Romanov. Just think of it as recon.”

“Recon my ass, Carter. You gather any more _recon_ and he’ll have grounds to get a restraining order.”

Natasha shoves at Sharon’s shoulder, snatching her mostly-empty coffee cup away.

“I’m going for a refill, if you’re not, I don’t know, _engaged_ or something by the time I get back I’m leaving you here.”

Sharon makes a rude gesture, turning her back on Steve, and glares at Natasha as she saunters toward the counter. Natasha glares back, her green eyes turning icy as she points sharply toward the wall of chairs, mouthing _go talk to him!_

With a sigh, Sharon lifts herself out of her chair, tossing back her hair as she starts across the shop, meandering her way through the tables, trying to look casual. She’s almost to the first chair in the man’s row when he looks up from his magazine, bright blue eyes lighting up when he sees her face.

“Hey,” he grins, settling his magazine carefully back inside his bag. “You’re the detective, right? Thor was telling me his ‘tale of your adventures’ the other day.”

Sharon barks a laugh, louder and truer than she meant, and watches his grin soften into a gentle kind of smile. “Well, I’ll guarantee you he tells it better than I do.”

“Maybe I’d like to take that bet.” He’s still smiling kindly up at her, and Sharon can’t help but smile back, it’s infectious. He pats the chair next to him, shifting to face it more fully, and says, “I’m Steve, by the way.”

Sharon settles into the soft leather chair, tucking her legs beneath her. “Sharon.”

Steve props his elbow on the armrest of his chair, resting his chin on his fist, and Sharon’s sure that those eyes just keep getting more blue, alight with interest as they watch her face. She clears her throat, and out of the corner of her eye she can make out Natasha, giving her the thumbs up and mumbling something that sure looks like _thank god_ before turning to Thor and getting her coffee to go.

+

Spring gives way to a hazy, humid summer and Bucky takes to leaving with Steve in the mornings, detouring toward Thor’s shop and reading his paper outside. At sixteen weeks post-op, the VA doctors have finally cleared him from having to wear the sling fulltime, and with physical therapy, he’s finding that he’s getting feeling back in his fingers. He likes spending time on the sidewalk outside the shop, soaking up the sun that filters through the late-morning clouds drifting off the water and letting long-slack muscles warm in the light.

Sam stops by, sometimes, laden down with books and papers and once, a very large cage filled with squealing parrots, all screeching in different voices and making a great racket that seemed like it was music to Sam’s ears, the way he smiled when Bucky asked what they were.

Today, Bucky’s about halfway through the day’s help-wanted section, his t-shirt sticking to his back, when Sam strolls up, dressed down for the heat and carrying only a single sheaf of papers, cradling it in his hands like it’s something precious. He smiles at Bucky like he always does, like that first time, careful and bright and honest, and Bucky’s finding that every time it’s easier to smile back, reaching out to clasp Sam’s outstretched hand.

“Hey,” he says, eying the stack of paper Sam rests gently on the table, and when he catches the few lines centered on the first page, his gaze darts back up to Sam’s. 

“You finished it?”

Sam looks down, pleased with himself, and there’s a breathless sort of laughter in his voice when he runs a finger along the edge of the pages. “Yes. Just got this draft back from the editors this morning.”

Bucky stands up with a start, grinning, and wraps his arms around Sam, embracing him. Sam laughs in earnest, the brightness of it reverberating through Bucky’s chest, and for a moment, Bucky can see himself doing that, with Sam. Standing here, in the sun, laughing about nothing because that’s what Sam makes him want to do, that’s how Sam makes him feel. 

He waits another moment before he relaxes his hold, slipping his arms from around Sam’s shoulders and taking his seat again, squinting through the sunlight to look up at him.

“Congratulations, Sam.”

Sam takes the seat across from him, knotting his fingers together on the top of the metal table and leaning in. “You know, I never thought it’d happen. I never thought anyone would listen.”

And it’s true, Bucky’s been there, he’s sat at this same damn table while Sam opened ten, twelve… _fifteen?_ rejection letters. Hell, he’d been here when Sam had gotten the cease and desist letter from Asgard Securities, full of bullshit about slander and legal threats, and then Bucky hadn’t quite been sure that Sam’s work was ever going to go anywhere. Right now, he tucks that doubt back, ashamed of it, and reaches across to cover Sam’s twined hands with one of his.

“But you did it, Sam. Someone listened. All of that time, that research, that fight – it meant something. It _means_ something.”

Sam huffs out a breath, like he’s been holding it in, waiting, and sags in his chair. “Yeah, I guess it does.” Another deep breath, like Sam’s inhaling the fresh air for the first time, like he’s coming out the other side of a long, long tunnel. “ _Shit_ , Buck. It _does_.”

They sit in silence for a while, the sun beating down as the afternoon warms, and it’s not until Bucky’s shoulder starts to stiffen that he has to pull away, releasing Sam’s hands.

“Look, Sam, I’d understand if you don’t want to meet me here anymore.”

Sam darts his head up from where he’s been staring at his manuscript, his brow furrowing as he meets Bucky’s eyes.

“What?”

Bucky leans back, ignoring the protesting skin at his shoulder and looks up, closing his eyes against the bright white afternoon light.

“It’s just… I get it. Your book’s done. You don’t need some busted up kid to bounce ideas off of anymore, you’re going to be busy with all of that published-author stuff now. It’s not like I’m expecting you to meet me for 2 o’clock coffees when you’re busy fighting the good fight. Look, I’m just…. I’ll understand.”

And Bucky wants to look, he wants to crack an eye and watch Sam’s face, he wants desperately to see that Sam’s going to disagree, to tell him to stop being stupid, but Bucky can’t quite pluck up the courage to do it, not least because he’s certain that Sam’s going to agree with him.

Instead, there’s silence, and it takes two more heartbeats before Bucky can’t stand it; he lowers his head again, blinking the blue-white spots out of his eyes and he wishes he hadn’t. Sam’s watching him, his eyes dark, the sunlight catching the russet in his skin and he looks hurt. He looks down at his manuscript again, his fingers clenching and releasing in their knot atop the table, and as Bucky watches, it seems that he comes to a decision about something.

“I can’t… I can’t _believe you_ , Bucky. You really think that’s why I’m here? You really think that the only reason I’d spend any time with you is because I didn’t have anything better to do while I killed time writing?”

Bucky juts his chin toward Sam, his teeth grinding together as two replies mix in his throat, cutting and pathetic, and he can’t quite make sense of which one he wants to say so instead he just opens his mouth, lets all the words he’s got out and figures he’ll make sense of them later, and what tumbles out is, “ _Fuck_ , Sam, it’s not that I don’t think… You could do _so much better_. Than me? Come on, I’m a goddamned disaster, Wilson, I’m barely holding myself together. For Christ’s sake, the only reason you ever said a word to me was because I couldn’t hold a fucking cup of coffee without spilling it all over you, because you _felt sorry for me_ —“

“Bucky –“ Sam cuts across him, his voice rising until Bucky has to shut up and listen, and Sam’s eyes pin him down. “Listen. It’s like… Just _shut up_ and listen to me. When kingfishers migrate, if one of them gets hurt, if they’re broken or sick, the other birds will gather them up. They’ll carry them along.” Sam lets out a frustrated noise, bringing his hands up to scrub across his scalp, breaking his gaze away from Bucky.

“Whatever, I know you don’t like metaphors but it’s like that. Sometimes, when you’re broken, or beaten down, you need help to get where you’re going. Some journeys you shouldn’t have to take alone. And that’s… You were here, always, when I needed you, through all of the shit I went through and that’s what I’m trying to do for you.”

Sam’s head snaps back up, and Bucky watches an exasperated look cross his face.

“ _Jesus_ , Bucky, you really think I’d—“

But Bucky’s heard enough, more than enough, and he feels precisely like the world’s biggest idiot, like he’s been reading a book and missing every glaring twist of foreshadowing, and Sam keeps talking, gesturing between them with his sure, warm hands and Bucky does the only thing he can think of to maybe put this conversation back in his court. Pressing his hands against the table, Bucky leans up and hooks a finger beneath Sam’s jaw, squeezing his eyes closed and crashing their lips together and hoping that this is not the dumbest thing he’ll do today.

It takes a moment, Sam still trying to fit words in the breathspace between them, and Bucky braces himself for a blow, but it doesn’t come. Sam’s hands still their flight and come to cradle Bucky’s face, and Bucky could swear that his heartbeat just turned audible, thudding out of his veins and into the air, sound made tangible, winging around them and blotting out the sun, blotting out everything but the feel of Sam’s shoulders beneath his hands.

Everything screams back into motion when Bucky pulls away, sucking in a breath that almost stings and trying his best to read Sam’s face. His chest is rising and falling like he’s got a gun to his head, like he’s running a race right off a cliff, his stomach frantically trying to decide if it wants to curl up in his throat or hit the pavement and make a run for it and Sam? Sam just smiles.

That same smile, the one that Bucky’s just now seeing for the first time. The clue he’s been missing.

+

“You really _were_ being an idiot.”

Bucky’s got his hands behind his head, his t-shirt sleeves rolled up against the shimmering summer heat. He’s leaning back precariously in the metal chair, dangling his feet above the hot sidewalk, and Steve’s scrutinizing him, twirling a micron pen between his fingers and trying to get the swirl of Bucky’s scars just right, his tongue caught between his teeth as he sketches careful dashes on his open sketchbook page. Bucky’s used to it, by now, Steve trying to capture how he’s healing. There are pages in Steve’s books, just of Bucky’s arm, wrapped in bandages and cradled in that blasted sling, and now, tanned and shot through with faded pink-and-white exclamation points. Steve says it’s therapeutic, and Bucky sometimes wonders if he means for both of them.

Steve doesn’t look up at Bucky, sweeping the needlepoint of his pen across the page as he huffs. “Well, it’s not like I didn’t learn from the expert.”

“Hey,” Bucky makes a face. “Take that back, Rogers, or find yourself another life model.”

“Hold _still_ ,” Steve groans, and if he wasn’t staring so intently at his sketchbook, Bucky would swear he was rolling his eyes.

“What else did Sharon say? Or did she just call you an idiot and then leave?” Bucky laughs, a sound that’s not so unfamiliar anymore, and _thunks_ his chair back onto the pavement. “Come on, spill.”

Steve heaves a world-weary sigh, looking at Bucky indulgently like he doesn’t outrank his sarcastic ass by a mile, and caps his pen, tucking it between the pages of his sketchbook and closing it. He reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck, squinting up at Bucky, sheepish like he’s going to share some kind of deep, dark secret and Bucky almost laughs again.

“She told me I was an idiot, and then she kissed me.”

Bucky lets out a whoop loud enough to startle the ladies at the table next to them, and Steve looks over at them apologetically as Bucky pumps a fist in the air.  


“Well, I’ll be. Captain Steve Rogers, finally managing to scare himself up a girlfriend. I wonder if it’s too late to get this in the evening edition.”

Steve lowers his face into his hands, shaking his head as Bucky reaches over to pat him on the shoulder. When he looks up again, Bucky’s got his chin resting on a fist, his eyes faraway, a smile folding large across his face, and it’s something Steve’s been waiting what feels like forever to see. His chest tightens at the look of joy that unfurls across Bucky’s face, something pure and honest about it that he didn’t think he’d ever see again, something that he was sometimes certain had bled out of Bucky and soaked into sand a year ago. Steve can’t help but let out a laugh.

+

Sam’s book hits stores on the first Saturday in July, and soon, it’s a bestseller. News crews and filmmakers from all over the world converge on San Francisco, scrambling to bring attention to the wild Red-masked Parakeets of Telegraph Hill, and managing to bring to light a few of Asgard Securities more… _unsavory_ local business practices as well. In two week’s time, Thor’s father, still acting chairman of the company, has already publicly announced that Asgard Securities will cease their plans to build in the areas now denoted as protected habitats, and that they will also be donating a generous sum of money to further Sam’s research and to help create a preserve.

A few days after the announcement, Sam gathers them all at Thor’s shop, Steve and Sharon and Natasha and Bucky, along with Steve’s friends from the history department and a few of Sam’s research associates, to celebrate. Thor even manages to finagle something with his shop’s license to allow him to serve champagne (Bucky wonders, privately, if “finagle” here means “invite two cops and look the other way”.)

And somewhere between the introductions and Steve’s hilarious attempts at beautifying Sam’s awful book jacket portrait (most notably by doodling a handlebar mustache and a rear admiral’s hat onto Bucky’s copy), Bucky finds himself seated at a table with Sam, Sharon perched on Steve’s lap across from them. He looks around at the shop, full and bustling, to Thor behind the counter wrestling with the cork on a bottle of champagne, cracking jokes and drawing musical laughter from Natasha. Candles twinkle along the front windows where Thor’s laid them out along the bar and twilight’s falling in the city, apartment lights flickering on as the sky slowly shivers from purple to blue.

Bucky wraps his fingers around the stem of his glass of champagne, leaning into Sam’s arm around his waist, and grins across the table at Steve. Sam raises his glass.

“To fighting, too hard and too long. Because it’s worth it.”

Four glasses meet in the center of their small table, crystal clinking and golden liquid twinkling in the darkening room, and Steve speaks up. 

“To victory.”

Sam laughs, tipping back the last of his champagne, saying, “And to the victor go the spoils.” He leans down and presses a kiss to Bucky’s cheek.

“You _did not_ just call me spoils, Wilson.” Bucky rubs at the spot on his cheek, pulling a face as Sam tries to land another peck on his forehead.

“I think he did,” Sharon chimes in, lacing her fingers with Steve’s where they rest at her hip.

Steve chuckles, “Yeah, but I think he forgot the ‘-ed’ at the end.”

Bucky gives Steve a dirty look, taking another sip of his champagne before it can turn too fond. Sam leans close again, whispering in Bucky’s ear.

“You know, I wouldn’t argue with the man.”

Thor’s laughter booms across the shop, drawing their attention, and Bucky catches his eye, raising his glass once more.

To the man who brought them all together. 

To the place where they all found what they didn’t know they were looking for.

**Author's Note:**

> So, Sam's pet project, [the Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wild_Parrots_of_Telegraph_Hill), actually do exist, and they're beautiful.
> 
> Written for my trope bingo square "AU: Other", and inspired by [this photoset](http://manueluv.tumblr.com/post/41986161876/coffee-shop-au) on tumblr.


End file.
